Tag: Writing Exercise

Writing Through Space And Time

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Two days ago, I was talking to my mom about reading, and with a wistful sigh, she said, “it’s such an escape.” I wanted to ask to where, but I should have asked, “how did you get there?” Actually, reader, where were my mom and I? What did you see?

I ask because words can do two things: convey information or describe a scene. Sometimes both happen simultaneously, but these words I’m saying? They’re only sounds in your mind. You can’t see me in my room typing in my red chair until I’ve told you. This technique is very useful.

Pretend you’re reading a novel. The protagonist hugs their crush in school, and for two paragraphs, time freezes while the narrator voices the protagonist’s thoughts. A novel that only showed setting and action couldn’t voice character thoughts. Conversely, a novel frozen in time to explain character thoughts would lack visuals.

Words can convey information, describe time and place, or do both.
Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán on Pexels.com

Here’s a sample of what I mean. Note the italics versus bold. (1): To Andre, the worst kind of movies were old westerns. They were all the same: reckless hero with a sharp jawline, damsel in distress who has no opinions of her own, and endless montages of horseback riding.

(2): To Andre’s horror, a cowboy movie was playing when he returned to the physics classroom. He stood motionless by the door, his friends folding their arms or hunched forward. This is what they chose to watch?! He turned to leave but someone waved and pointed to an open seat.

In example (1), the narration is info-conveying. There are hints of visuals like the hero’s jawline, which you may have envisioned, but I’ve withheld knowledge of Andre’s location and actions—he is frozen in time. Example (2) animates Andre and the scene with phrases like “physics classroom” and “stood motionless.”

We are all skilled at info-conveying and descriptive writing. We’ve encountered the forms in essays and fiction. And yet, like other literary techniques, when we write, we tend to use the two forms unconsciously. Be aware of which form you’re using, and experiment with the ratio that you use them!

Nostalgia Knots

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In the dim light, black dust drifted just above the floor of the shop. Specks of it crept from nowhere and vanished just as quickly—twirling and hovering about. They lingered by a red armchair that awaited the day’s clients. Clumps of it littered the floor around the chair, Clumpy knots fastened by thousands of curls. Their umbral shade was imposing. Olive fragrance emanated from them, mingling with the shop’s cologne and worn shoe smell. The curtains were closed, and the lime walls had three paintings fixed on their concrete surface: a dark-skinned DJ and a woman dancing; puzzle pieces approaching completion; an onyx continent unfurled across white-blue foam.

The owner swept silently. Paint chipped blades gyrated from above, and that black dust evaded capture. Besides swipes from the broom and the fan’s thrumming, it was dead quiet. A lamp beside the desk mirror lit the shop and accosted gray light peering through the curtains. Facing the desk, atop the console table, a flat screen droned, mute, playing a court skit from The Richard Pryor Show.

The owner managed to get some large clumps off the floor. Other pieces were spread out or stuck on the tiles. It was tougher than usual, his shoulders stiff from a bad night’s rest. He hoped the day’s clients had stories to tell.

Bells chimed as the glass door swung open. “Hey, Mr. Tristen.”

Phillip turned and straightened his back, searching for the unscheduled entrant. It was a young man, his hair in a fade that’d been curled with a twist sponge. A thin jacket sagged on his shoulders. It was carbon around the abdomen, lead from the chest up, the inside collar vermillion. He knew that jacket.

“Heyo, Bobby!” He let his broom thwack against the wall and gave him a pound. “What’s good young brother? You’ve had a growth spurt.”

“I know, I know. I’m thirteen now.”

“Thirteen? Boy, you done grown so tall. You not done yet?”

Bobby laughed, his face folding into a crescent so familiar to Phillip. Phillip turned, eyeing his unkempt floor and his muted TV.

“You come for a cut Bobby? Your hair’s already fresh. Sit your jacket off, I can shape you up.”

“No Mr. T. Just wanted to catch up. Haven’t seen the place in a minute.”

He walked around Phillip to the TV, then scanned the milkcrate of books below and beside it.

“You always had good reads,” he said. “Remember that book of world records?”

“Yeah. They weren’t records. More like world’s weirdests. Ripley’s Believe it or Not.”

“Like that woman with the fingernails?”

“Pshh, don’t remind me. Every step she’d take would make the ground screech like a chalkboard.”

Bobby picked up one book at a time. He opened, flipped through, saw just about all the pictures, then set it back. He turned to Phillip.

“I could bring chalk if you want. Could scrape some on your window. It’ll be like she’s here to visit you.”

Phillip marched over and waggled a fist.

“Now I’ll beat your butt if you do that.”

“Are you sure? I know you love screeching noises.”

The two giggled, wrinkles tight on their mouths and foreheads. Laughter bounded from wall-to-wall, filling the soundless shop with life. When it quieted, Phillip decided the day was young and he ought to have some sound instead of his mental acrimony. He unmuted the TV.

“So Mr. Tristen, how the customers treatin’ ya?”

“Oh you know. Same stuff as always…” he said, walking towards the entrance. He adjusted the curtains to let in natural light. On the windowsill was a ceramic pot. It was coil shaped and painted blue, shiny in the light. Potted in it were bamboo stalks—for good luck.

“…every time I’m giving one guy a cut, another comes in fifteen ahead of schedule. Like they shouldn’t have to wait.” He shook his head. “But the funny ones. I forgive em.”

“At least no one’s causing any beef.”

“No, no fights break out here. The worst are the loiterers. I usually do appointments only, but that doesn’t stop some gutsy fool from tryin’ to squeeze in.” He hopped on the windowsill. “How about you Bobby? Breezing through your classes?”

Bobby waved a hand.

“I have to. Mom would have my head if I got anything below a B.” He paused. After clearing his throat, he stood and said plainly, “I’m moving. And not to a different neighborhood this time. We’re going to New York.”

Phillip recoiled.

“Dang, that’s a hike.” He put a hand to his chin. “You excited about it?”

Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference, I guess. Either way I’m going to high school next year.” The two knew each other for some time, so it wasn’t hard for Phillip to see Bobby’s furtive urgency. For one, his insistence on nostalgia. Then there was his tapping foot. It tapped at this moment, to an incongruous rhythm parallel to his unspoken thoughts.

Phillip dropped his hands. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

His eyes shrank to marbles. He shrugged again.

Sitcom laughter rang from the TV. Richard Pryor, who was playing a Southern, racist lawyer, made a failed attempt to solicit evidence from a ditzy and duplicitous victim; instead of saying where she was when her supposed assault occurred, she described the beginning of Alice and Wonderland.

Bobby’s home the last three years was a cramped, rented space. It was a rectangle: two floors, vertical, and as narrow as a back alley. His parents’ plan was to save wherever possible so they could pay for his college. Phillip didn’t dare ask what the New York home was like.

Instead he made a hard blink and tried to focus. “It’s not easy. You’re not only gonna have more freedom than before, you’ll be in a totally unknown environment. My advice, start off slow.”

“It’d be easier to do that if my friends were there. I’ve never ridden a bus before, I don’t know any hangout spots in NY.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Your dad’ll show you the bus route to school. But when you have some free time, just walk around your block. Get familiar with the place and who knows. It might start to feel like home.” Bobby’s gaze began to soften. “As for friends, keep contact with the ones you got. You’re getting older. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to come back and visit.”

With a brusque exhale Bobby nodded, then eyed the room. He looked at the paintings—his favorite being the DJ, Phillip remembered—and the TV and for a few moments the red chair before he finally turned and asked, “Why didn’t you sweep up yesterday?”

“Hah, just tired is all.”

“That’s it?”

Phillip hopped off the windowsill and waltzed to his broom.

“Yup. Needed to catch up on some sleep. It’s good for your brain, you know. What’s it, around 75% of memories recorded during REM sleep?”

Bobby cocked his head. “Huh.”

“Don’t worry bout it. Stuff you think about when you’re older—my age older. Have you decided what you’re gonna do when you grow up?”

“I dunno. I could be one of those people that gets paid to play videogames. But I should just get money—for free, for being myself.”

“Seriously. What do you like to do that makes you happy?”

“Alright, alright. Well, I like to talk a lot. Kids in class like to listen to me, even the teacher sometimes. I guess I would be a lawyer.”

“That’s the ticket! You’ll be an excellent lawyer. Use that creativity of yours. Go and tell the jury a story.”

With a wide smile and between laughs, Bobby said, “Yeah. Yeah I will. Thanks Mr. T.”

Phillip dipped his head in approval. He was slightly startled when he noticed Bobby, laughing, was backing away towards the front door.

“Alright Mr. Tristen. Imma head out.”

“Okay Bobby, you take care now.”

Bobby waved and bells chimed at his opening the door.

Phillip threw a hand up and called out, “Hey Bobby. Come down to visit from New York sometime.”

The door shut.

The ceiling fan gyrated, incessantly, but it could hardly be heard. The TV eclipsed all sounds. Gusts swirled to each corner of the shop, and on the floor those black clumps bumbled liked tumbleweed. Phillip sighed and retrieved his broom. Lifting his shoulders made the joints crack but swaying them made them stiff. How would he get this hair off the floor?

Gritting his teeth, he swept.

Slips Away

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

His wrists were curled onto the banister. They were weightless, a draped towel. The fluff of his palms connected with the cold metal. Despite this, hot sweat still formed on his fingertips. The fingers themselves were motionless, stale like an uneaten pretzel. They couldn’t move even if he wanted them to… He wanted them to. On both wrists his pulse pounded porcupines. He could grab the railing with his bare fingers, but after being motionless so long he feared they’d snap like frozen carrots. Had his wrists not been pressing against the banister, he would have leaned forward too far, falling four floors to his doom.

* * *

A pink sunset. Orange clouds, only a few, dotting an azure sky. From the roof he could still smell honey from the garden. The scent of tall uncut grass tickled his nostrils. He didn’t know it, but he was scowling. His forehead had relaxed into a folded, wrinkled position.

* * *

Nostalgia was his least favorite emotion. That’s why he was so dour in this moment. It felt like it could have been yesterday. There were no words in his memory. Only images and sensations. Two floors below in this very building, a large storage area. A giant flat cube, with smaller flat cubes in it. Each in a different color. An old iPhone on a table hooked up to speakers. A group, about a dozen, and himself, dancing. Fast. Stomping on those cubes, trailing off onto the concrete floor. A girl. Gentle fingers, clay that molded perfectly into his. She led him upstairs.

* * *

He could see her well now. Jet black hair that shot straight down from her head and stopped at the small of her back. Glistening off her hair was the pink light of the sun. She wore jeans and a loose cream-white sweater. Along the sleeves were perforated bunnies. She smiled wide, an invitation to ask her anything. He glanced at her earth brown skin. It radiated a warm aura. He could feel it, even from the short distance that separated them. This moment, he thought, was the perfect opportunity. To say something. Anything. What to ask her? He found himself staring at her eyes longer than he had realized. She looked puzzled. Perhaps he was not aware that he was quivering, so when he attempted to ask her what he wanted to ask her, she simply laughed him off. Or was she laughing with him? She must have expected him to say something, because he was silent for a long time, and he can vividly remember watching her smile melt away. After that, all he could remember was that she left.

* * *

He wished they’d stayed in the dark. There, they were equal. There, he felt self-worth.

Two Blind Men

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ 2 Comments

Hills rose above the trees in Mt. Airy. McCallum St. barreled down from Glen Echo Rd at the hill’s top to Lincoln Drive at the foot of the incline. Despite its grand size, the slope’s drop was not abrupt for passersby advancing up or marching down the hill. Road bumps acted as safety nets, warning attentive drivers there was still some road to go until a turn onto bustling Lincoln Drive.

On either side of the incline were homes two-to-three floors tall. These houses were wide, front lawns lined with daffodils and colorful flowers. The homes were rectangular, slanting on the McCallum St. hill like homes in San Francisco.

A blind, elderly man aimlessly wandered uphill. He wore a tattered navy-blue jacket, a paint splotched puce green t-shirt and faded jeans. A warmth waved on him from the face down. It was a bright, cloudless day. Normally he’d sit at peace on a bench somewhere, but a darkness preoccupied him.

He couldn’t see. His cane had been broken in half the previous night, and the half stick he had left was not making a loud enough sound to see properly. Haphazard taps clacked off the ground as he hunched over, using a tool half his arm length.

Digital clicks echoed in a car as the driver squinted at his phone, trying to finish his text telling his wife how nice the weather today was. He was so focused that he sped over the road bumps on the hill, careened to the bottom, and hit a figure walking, causing a boom of cracked bones and torn flesh as the figure rolled onto the windshield. The driver’s engine sputtered and he veered into a tree.

Death Of A Character Exercise

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr.

I squeezed Sara to my chest. She was sandpaper rough, her arms chalk-powdered. She burned to the touch. Cracks of flesh lined her body, blood runny and bubbly. Skidded tire smell pervaded the air around us. She was alive but—God, how could I even think this—she’d be better off not. Her shut eyes were twitching. Her mouth was open and her teeth were clamped shut. Everyone outside was calling her, shouting her name, but she wouldn’t respond. Her head hadn’t turned an inch left or right since I pulled her out the house. She was in shock.

I sat on the green fire hydrant on the curb, my baby sister wrapped tight in my arms. Men sprinted past us, their red helmets bouncing on their heads, carrying hoses thick as my thigh. No one looked twice at my seat. Everyone knew this one was broken for decades. The money never came to this part of the city.

Sara stirred, she reached her left arm to touch her face. The gesture looked painful.

“Don’t move so much. You’re very hot, you need to rest.”

Her touching her own skin probably ignited her nerves. Pain from the burns, cuts opening from contracting the muscles. It was so hard to breath in there, she needs to get more air in her system before she moves at all.

She let her arm fell to her side. Her body was sweltering against my knees. She needed water. Something to cool her insides. 

“Hold on Sara. Brother’s gonna save you.”

Holding her, I ran down the block. The flames engulfed the our entire house—they were still trying to get Mom and Dad from the second floor—but they were having trouble reaching rowhomes connected to ours. I had to find a house that wasn’t hit yet. Someone would lend us some water.

When she was six Sis wanted me to teach her to play ball. Of course I said no, she was too little, too short to dribble. Not to mention the ball could hit her head. She wouldn’t stop following me though, standing behind me whenever I tried to shoot. Chasing me, trying to snatch the ball. When she was seven, I let her pass it to me before it rolled down the street. She’d start guessing my shots, “made it,” “nope.” Somehow, she was mostly right.

“I gotta teach you when you get a bit older.”

“Yeah, and I’ll kick your butt.”

Two houses didn’t answer but the third opened. A woman. I explained about the commotion, the sirens, the fire. She gave me some water bottles out her fridge and ran inside. She had some things she didn’t want the fire to destroy.

We sat on her porch, Sara in my lap. I slowly tipped some water down her throat, hoping she’d be able to swallow. She did. I put my head to her chest, her heart was beating wildly.

The cuts. I needed alcohol to clean them. I rushed up to knock on the woman’s door again. My elbow bumped against Sara’s neck. She winced, hard. Tears formed in her eyes. Then she stopped. Her teeth loosened. Her head fell back. Everything around me started going fast. My heart. The men running in the street. The porch grew wide, from ten feet to ten miles. I put my head to her chest. Then I screamed.